Page 109 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
We’re far in the woods now, and as I pass a poisonous hemlock, I avert my gaze. Whatever I collect, I’ll have to give to Azaire. With every step and every student who picks their poison, I pretend not to see anything.
But Azaire’s eyes rest somewhere in the distance, over my shoulder and past the foliage.
I watch him intently. He’s determined. There’s something he wants to do, and he’s going to do it. It’s a nice feeling from him. Uncommon.
But I invite it.
He is the person I enjoy feeling the most.
Azaire walks past me, and for a silent moment, I hope he isn’t reaching for a plant of his choosing. I’m sure he knows what I’m doing—delaying the inevitable—and I don’t want him to feel that hehasto do this. Even though he does.
When Azaire returns, he stands inches from my face. His eyes hold a softness that rivals the harshness of the day. Slowly, he reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear, then gently places a delicate stem there. The nature brushes against my skin, and his closeness warms me.
“What is it?” I ask with a laugh, letting out a breath of relief. We only have a few more minutes before I have to harm him.
Azaire meets my gaze, his own glistening, bright, hopeful. As if he doesn’t even mind the poisoning, so long as he gets to do it with me.
“A violet,” he murmurs. “It brings out your eyes.”
For a moment, I falter. And when I recover my motor functions, I raise a hand to my ear, pulling the flower away from my skin. I hold it between my gloved fingers, twisting the stem and looking at the pollen.
I see Ma in the flower. The way she’d cover one of her eyes with a violet, just like this one, then tuck it behind my ear with a kiss on my forehead.
I smell her as I hold it close to my nose.
Glancing up at Azaire, my eyebrows knit together—tears close to spilling.
“How did you know?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
He smiles but shakes his head. “Know what?”
I choke on my words, the feeling tightening in my chest. There’s no reason he would know that this is Ma’s flower. It’s just one example of how Azaire understands me like no one else can.
“Violets were my ma’s favorite,” I finally manage to say.
His shoulders lift slightly, like he’s trying to give me space. “I didn’t know.” There’s a soft sadness in his tone that makes me feel like maybe hedoesknow, in some way.
Not about the flowers—but about this feeling.
“My mistake.” My voice drops, and I shrink back slightly. Have I crossed an invisible line? Am I overbearing, have I said too much?
The quiet between us is heavy.
But Azaire doesn’t think so.
“No,” he says. “It isn’t a mistake at all.” A soft pause, then, “How did she die?”
His eyes meet mine with an earnestness that makes my chest tighten. Every word he speaks is laden with patience. He genuinely wants to know, wants to help.
Azaire knows that there are no easy deaths—not for kids like us. No neat, simple stories. Oddly, he wants to make me feel less alone in this moment.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out when I don’t answer, his tone soft with regret. “If you don’t want to tell me—”
“She was killed.” My gaze moves on the ground, unable to meet his eyes. “By a pernipe. I should have saved her, but I-I couldn’t.”
Azaire stops walking, and the group around us passes by. So many of the Eunoia twist their poisonous herbs between their fingers, as if they’re nothing more than pretty flowers.
As we stand still, Azaire searches for something to say that will adequately display his sorrow. I can already feel it rolling off him like the mist from a wave, as if he’s trying to carry a part of the burden with me.
